


After All

by AmberDiceless



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Podfic Welcome, spiritual/religious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberDiceless/pseuds/AmberDiceless
Summary: Of course everyone knew there would be consequences, and that the world would have to endsometime. A story about What Happened After, with guest appearances by Him Below, the four Archangels and the Big Cahuna Himself. Written as a gift for lemonfruitfish for the 2008 Good Omens Exchange on Livejournal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lemonfruitfish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lemonfruitfish).



> **Note for Amazon TV fans:** God and the archangels never appeared in person in the book, so the versions in this story are quite different from their on-screen counterparts.
> 
> Everyone and everything mentioned herein is the property of Pratchett and Gaiman or a Much Higher Authority.

If there was one thing that Aziraphale had learned after dealing with the Heavenly bureaucracy for the past sixty centuries, it was that one never really got away scot-free with anything.

Oh, he'd managed to sweep any number of rules violations and questionable compromises under the rug, and for the most part they stayed there, never again to see the light of day. But even if Heaven didn't know precisely what he was up to at any given time, they had an uncanny knack for determining that he was up to _something._ He strongly suspected that a good deal of the paperwork he was obliged to fill out, the unannounced performance reviews, random visits from higher-ups and assorted other headaches they routinely sent his way were intended simply as reminders that he did in fact report to someone else, or as blanket penance for whatever he happened to have done wrong that quarter.

He gathered that things were much the same on Crowley's end, except of course that Hell was that much more effective at putting the fear of, well, themselves into his counterpart. Given what Crowley had to look forward to if he was ever held accountable for his own considerable transgressions, the angel thought it was really quite remarkable that he'd managed to talk the demon into standing his ground as the thwarted Apocalypse had neared its pinnacle.

Remarkable and, he was beginning to think, possibly slightly unfortunate. As well as it spoke for Crowley's character that he'd been willing to stand up to the Great Adversary armed with nothing but a tyre iron, in retrospect, it had also been a bit...what was the word...foolhardy? And none too wise of him to suggest it, he thought with a sigh as he tidied up the shop in preparation for closing. (It had been open for all of an hour.) It wasn't as though the two of them had stood any better chance of making a real difference together than he had by himself.

Truth be told, he'd asked Crowley to stay simply because it had made him feel better to think he wouldn't be facing certain annihilation alone. Maybe that had been terribly selfish of him, but he had sincerely believed at the time that Crowley's number would be up very soon thereafter anyway. So it was all well and good, except for the inconvenient detail that he _hadn't_ died, and neither had Crowley. Who, when and if his superiors ever did get around to bringing him to task for it, was going to be in an awful lot of trouble. (Much more so than he would. After all, it wasn't as though he, Aziraphale, had defied God personally. And he hadn't Fallen for his transgression, a matter which was entirely out of the Archangels' hands and which, he suspected, had them more or less stymied. If the Lord chose not to punish him for such an egregious display of disobedience, then there wasn't much they could justify doing to him, apart from heaping a little extra red tape on his head out of pure spite.)

At any rate, where he was currently standing, some eight weeks past the incident, was with a slightly more varied inventory which he had _finally_ catalogued to his own satisfaction, another few evenings a month given over to filling out pointless forms which would likely be consigned to Limbo with nary a glance from anyone who mattered...and one increasingly jittery demon dropping by more and more frequently, and overstaying his welcome as a matter of course. Aziraphale couldn't really blame him, and kept him well-supplied with tea and oblique reassurance (in liquid form laced into the tea when necessary,) but the demon's nervousness was infectious; they'd been walking around for fortnights with twin Swords of Damocles dangling unseen overhead, and he didn't think he could take much more of it. Something would soon have to give.

Ten minutes later, the bookstore door opened, and something did.

"Terribly sorry, but I was just about to clo--" he began automatically, and then the patent _wrongness_ of the visitor struck him like a physical blow and the words caught in his throat. His first knee-jerk impulse was to shout into the back room for Crowley to run for it, followed immediately by _Don't, don't give him away, just hope he feels it too and escapes out the back door..._

"Terribly sorry," the new arrival echoed in a clipped, sophisticated accent, smoothly turning the sign as he stepped in the door and shut it behind him. He was a remarkably handsome man: tall and strong, with shining blond curls and a slightly oily smile that widened as he studied Aziraphale coolly. His penetrating blue eyes were horribly, brilliantly familiar and somehow, subtly, not quite altogether sane. "I'm afraid this really can't wait. But don't worry, I promise I shan't take too much of your valuable time, _Mr. Fell."_

Aziraphale deliberately placed the stack of books he was holding on the counter and folded his arms defensively across his chest. "What do you want?" he asked, pleased at least that he was able to keep his voice more or less steady.

"Now, let's not get off on the wrong foot," said the man calmly, strolling up to the counter. "Although I suppose you could say we already have, hm? Still, there's no need to be _unpleasant._ Flaming swords and tyre irons and all that, really. We're all civilized men, are we not?" He chuckled. "Well, so to speak..."

Aziraphale was spared from answering by a sudden clatter as the door to the back room flew open and Crowley came skidding out, his face the color of milk gone sour. _No no no, you staggering great idiot, what are you thinking? It's you he's after!_

But whatever action self-preserving good sense might call for in a situation like this, Crowley was having none of it. "Don't hurt the angel," he croaked, and Aziraphale's heart thudded painfully against his sternum. "Please..."

Leaning casually on the counter, the Devil rolled his eyes and gave Aziraphale a long-suffering look. "There, you see? Such unnecessary drama. Is he always this excitable?" He sighed. "Calm yourself, Mr. Crowley, we are not engaged in an Apocalypse today. I have no intention of harming your friend. Or you, for that matter."

Crowley traded mystified looks with the angel and edged a little closer to him. "I don't understand," he said cautiously.

"Of course you don't. You never have." Lucifer shook his head reprovingly. Still leaning on the counter, he steepled his hands, regarding his wayward minion thoughtfully. "To be frank, I've never been quite sure what to do with you, either. And now you've gone and left me in a very awkward position, Crowley. Very awkward indeed."

"...sorry?" the lesser demon offered, thrusting his hands in his pockets to quell their nervous fidgeting. "Sorry, _Sir,"_ he added quickly. "I hope it isn't too impertinent of me to ask, but...what position? And, uh, if you're not going to drag me away to be tormented for eternity or anything like that, why _are_ you here?"

Lucifer straightened up. "Well, it's just this, little one. That unruly son of mine has declared you and your friend here off-limits to my forces as well as my counterpart's, at least while his stewardship of the planet lasts. While I could force the issue if I really wanted to, frankly, you're just not worth the trouble." He shrugged. "No offense."

"None taken," Crowley muttered weakly.

"Nevertheless, I can't ignore what happened indefinitely. It's bad for morale, bad for discipline. The natives Down There are getting restless, wanting to see someone held accountable. Makes it difficult to get anything done. And, well," he gestured, "I'm afraid where the choice of a sacrificial lamb is concerned, you're a bit of a no-brainer. You understand."

"Oh, quite. Absolutely," Crowley said agreeably, still not quite sure where this was going, but pretty certain he wasn't going to like it. Aziraphale was now edging toward _him_ as though with some crazy idea about getting between him and Lucifer, which was typical of the angel and typically plain stupid, and made him wish with all his heart that he was really deserving of that kind of self-sacrificing tripe. "So you're here to...?"

Lucifer smiled grimly and made an unnecessarily complicated gesture, calling into his hand a plain, thick manila envelope. "I am really sorry to have to do this," he said, sounding almost sincere. "Aziraphale--that is your name, correct?--you may wish to step a bit further to your left."

To his left would take him closer to Crowley. Confused, the angel hesitated...then lunged in that direction when Crowley abruptly swayed and crumpled silently toward the floor. Aziraphale caught him before he hit the ground.

"Crowley! You--what did you do to him?" he demanded of Lucifer, dropping awkwardly into a sitting position with his friend's inert body cradled in his arms.

"Nothing too serious, I assure you. Undoubtedly it's a bit of a shock, but he'll be fine once he's had time to adjust, I expect," the Morningstar said smoothly.

Aziraphale checked Crowley's vitals and was relieved to find them strong and steady, if a little slower than expected. "Adjusted...to what?"

Lucifer held up the envelope. "It's all explained in here. Hold on to this until he comes around, would you? I trust it won't go astray." He set the envelope on the counter.

"Of course it won't," Aziraphale snapped. Only Crowley's proximity kept the angel's halo from flaring up wrathfully in the Adversary's direction, and not just because of the jab at his integrity. "Is your business here concluded, then? Or shall I go and find you a puppy to kick?"

"Tut, tut. You'd really like to smite me right now, wouldn't you?" Lucifer smirked. "And over my perceived mistreatment of your Enemy, too. You really do enjoy living dangerously." His smile turned icy. "It's remarkable you haven't Fallen. You ought to have, you know; your friend there was after all cast down for much lesser crimes than yours. I do wonder at times how He justifies that Plan of His in His own mind, if He even bothers..."

Aziraphale turned his face away. "Bastard," he said softly.

Lucifer cocked his head to one side, curious. "Oh, you didn't know? In all your companionable nights of drunken philosophy, little Crawly never shared with you the story of his tumble from grace?"

"It's not my business," Aziraphale said stonily. He didn't want to hear that story. He'd never wanted to. Crowley's airy claim that he'd 'sauntered vaguely downward' was perfectly adequate as far as he was concerned, as much as he'd always known it was a polite fiction.

"Oh, I think you're wrong about that." Lucifer walked up to where the angel sat and hunkered down before him, now wearing an expression of sober sincerity that made Aziraphale itch to tear his preternaturally-beautiful face off. "It's just now become very pertinent to you, if it never was before.

"You see, Crowley was never one of my followers. He was happy in Heaven. He didn't want to see the Creator overthrown. He didn't fight with the Legion, never raised a hand against any of the Host."

Aziraphale shook his head, and had to ask in spite of himself. "But that--that doesn't make any sense. How...?"

Lucifer's icy blue gaze didn't waver. "His error came after all that," he explained. "He had some friends among my people, apparently, and when all the Choirs assembled to witness our punishment--you were probably too far back in the ranks to catch it--he, and he alone among all the Faithful, spoke up in our defense. He dared to question; to say to the Father that it was too much, that there must be another way." Looking oddly pensive, he reached out as though to touch Crowley's face or his hair, but dropped his hand with a sigh when Aziraphale shrank defensively away. "And for that act of compassion, he was promptly judged and exiled along with the rest of us." The beautiful face was briefly fractured by a contemptuous sneer. "So much for all that drivel about forgiveness and loving thine enemy..."

He pushed himself to his feet. "There's a reason I chose him to send to the Garden, you know, and looked the other way all these millennia as he went most grievously astray. I felt as though I owed him something, I suppose. And Hell would have utterly destroyed him." He put his hands in his pockets, raising his eyebrows. "He's gone too far this time, though. I don't blame him, particularly, you realize; that whole business with Adam was as sorry a comedy of errors as any I've ever seen, and I can scarcely fault him for preferring Earth to Perdition. Who wouldn't?" He smiled ruefully. "But it really is out of my hands. The best I can do for him now is leave him to you."

He turned and walked to the door, pausing to glance back with his hand on the knob. "He's fortunate to have such a friend. I wish I were so lucky."

Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it again, watching dumbly as the Great Adversary opened the bookshop door, stepped through and let it swing gently shut behind him. Through the shaded windows, he saw a flare of virulent orange and red that soon dwindled away into the fading twilight, like a bad dream upon awakening.

\---

Crowley came to his senses some time later, not quite sure where he was or what had happened to him, but feeling very strange and a bit woozy. It took a moment or two for the memory of Lucifer's unexpected visit to filter back in. When it did, he shot upright and almost toppled off the overstuffed couch that hadn't been in the bookshop's back room the last he remembered. Strong hands caught and supported him as a wave of dizziness nearly swept him back into unconsciousness. "Ngk. Where--"

"Steady on there," Aziraphale said calmly, "no need to panic. He's long gone, and whatever it was he did, you seem to be still in one piece." He helped Crowley prop himself upright and returned to the armchair where he'd apparently been reading, regarding the demon searchingly. "How are you feeling?"

"Weird." Crowley rubbed his eyes, wondering offhandedly where his sunglasses had got to. "Drained. He didn't...do anything else, did he?" Openly asking about the angel's well-being was not something he was given to doing, but under the circumstances...

"No. He left a few moments after you collapsed. Never so much as raised his voice." Aziraphale laced his fingers together and leaned on his knees, peering intently at his counterpart over the rims of his spectacles. "It's all very odd. I can't find anything actually _wrong_ with you. But your aura seems a little...off."

"Off?" Crowley echoed, understandably disquieted by this news. "Off in what way, exactly?"

Aziraphale tilted his head slightly. "Not as bright as usual. Or as red." Actually, it was considerably dimmer. And with much of the angry crimson he'd always associated with Crowley now gone, traces of other, softer, cooler colors (which he suspected had been there, masked by the more intense colors all along) were now glimmering through. He didn't want to upset Crowley further, however, so he only added, "It's still brighter than a human's, though."

"Peachy." Crowley looked around. "So that's it? I get a personal visit from Him Below and all he does is...install a dimmer switch? Energy Star rated Crowley 2.0? That can't be all there is to it."

"No, I don't expect it is." Ignoring the technological babble which, as usual, meant nothing to him, Aziraphale picked up the envelope Lucifer had left and offered it to him. "He asked me to give this to you. He said it would explain everything."

Crowley accepted the envelope and opened it somewhat reluctantly, pulling out a thick sheaf of papers. He stopped and stared at the topmost one for a long, brittle moment...and then started to laugh.

Aziraphale blinked, straightening up in his chair. "What? What's so funny?"

Wordlessly, still snickering, Crowley lifted the top document and showed it to him. It was printed on pale pink paper.

"He's given me my walking papers," he explained when he could speak again. "I've been sodding pink-slipped by Hell." He dropped the paper on the sofa next to him and flipped through the rest of the bundle. "Final performance review, severance agreement, termination of benefits...pension? I had a pension plan?" He snorted. "41,370 days of accumulated vacation pay they never told me I was entitled to. See why you should always read the fine print, angel?"

"Well, it sounds like you won't have to worry about your finances for a while," Aziraphale said dryly. "If they intend to honor the terms, of course. What else?"

"They should. It all looks in order, and they're sticklers down there for keeping to the letter of the agreement." The demon read on, frowning slightly. "I henceforth shall have no access to any special powers or privileges associated with my employment with their organization. Maybe that explains the aura thing. I never have quite been sure how much of what I could do came of being their agent and how much was inherent to me...although I suppose the hellfire's sort of a given..." He paused. "Now what the fuck's this? This thing has a _title?"_

"Thing?" the angel prompted.

"This corporation. I get to keep the body, apparently." Crowley raised his eyebrows glumly. "They are of course under no obligation to replace it in the event of catastrophic damage, destruction, normal wear and tear...act of God, ha ha. Very funny, mates. But if it breaks down due to defects in workmanship within the next ninety days they'll let me trade it in. Sporting of them."

"Mm. Quite." Aziraphale had a distinct feeling there was another shoe waiting to drop.

Crowley went through a series of entirely pedestrian and unalarming documents before he came to the last one in the heap. "Oh," he said quietly after skimming it briefly, "here we go. The disclaimer and discharge of liability."

Aziraphale winced. "Of course..."

Already somewhat pale, Crowley's face grew waxen as he read. "From this date forward, Hell assumes no responsibility for the former agent or for any actions perpetrated by or property belonging to said individual. Hell is furthermore hereby relieved of any and all obligation, stated or implied, to offer any form of protection, advocacy, extraction, counsel, compensation, or other assistance, material or immaterial, to the former agent for any reason, including but not limited to acts of Heaven, of third parties (mortal or immortal,) or of unauthorized representatives of Hell itself. The former agent is however free to negotiate for such services at his option, as per official policy (see Standard Operations Manual, chapter 13, for full details.)"

He carefully squared up the stack and returned it to its envelope. "So, in a nutshell, unless I want to enter into an extremely one-sided bargain with them--which they know very well I won't do, I've been in the business too long to fall for that--I'm officially on my own. If Hastur or Michael or anybody else decides they want a Crowley-skin rug for their study, they won't lift a finger to stop it happening."

"Would they have before, though?" Aziraphale asked, trying to find at least a not-too-dark side to the situation (and failing, in his own estimation.) "And won't Adam intervene if they try?"

Crowley shrugged. "I don't know. They have, once or twice, when it would have been more inconvenient to replace me than stop something else killing me." He ran both hands through his hair, feeling more at a loss than he had since that moment in the burning shop when he'd realized he really was alone and the world was coming apart. "But before, even if they left me to hang, at least I knew what I could do to defend myself. As for Adam, who knows? Just because he's banned any official retaliation doesn't mean he'll step in to put the kibosh on a personal vendetta. And he won't be around forever."

Aziraphale nodded. "Well, we can work on figuring all that out. For now, though, I'd suggest you just take it easy until you've acclimatized to the situation a bit. Get your bearings."

"Easy for you to say, angel. The minute word gets around Downstairs, my arse might as well have a big red target painted on it." Crowley leaned back and shut his eyes. "Hastur's not the only one down there who'd like to hang it on his wall as a trophy."

"That's an image I could well have done without," Aziraphale observed, but his own brows were knitted together with concern. Not sure what else he could say, he finally fell back on his default solution to practically every crisis. "Tea?"

Crowley smiled faintly as one small part of his world righted itself and fell solidly back into place. "Sure. Tea would be great."

The angel got a tray together and brought it out, and for a few minutes they sat sipping the familiar beverage and talking of inconsequential things as though everything were perfectly normal.

"I should be going," Crowley said finally, setting his empty cup down with an air of finality that sent an icy bolt of panic lancing right through Aziraphale's middle.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked as Crowley got up and headed somewhat unsteadily for the door. "I mean, under the circumstances...you're welcome to stay here a while, if you'd rather." _I certainly would._

Crowley shook his head, pausing but not turning back. "I'd just be in your way. Can't hide in here forever, anyway. You know they're almost certainly watching the place already. And it could get you in a lot of trouble with your own people."

Those were not comforting thoughts at all, but they weren't exactly new, either. "Dear boy, you've been getting underfoot for thousands of years now. I assure you, I'm quite used to it." Aziraphale got up and walked around between his friend and the door, putting out a hand to steer Crowley back toward the couch. "No one said anything about forever. Also, I suspect I'd be guilty of criminal negligence if I let you drive right now."

Crowley shot him a look that was, as usual, very difficult to read. Those odd reptilian eyes were nearly as unrevealing as the sunglasses. "Look...I appreciate it. I do. But it's bad enough I'm at loose ends. I don't fancy ending up as your trusty sidekick, diving behind your halo anytime danger threatens."

"I know, and I don't either. It won't come to that." Aziraphale tried not to sound desperate. He had the strongest feeling that if Crowley walked out right then, he would never see him again. "Just...give it a day or two, won't you? Humor me. I'll take it as a favor repaid."

"Do I owe you one?" Crowley asked, reluctantly allowing himself to be nudged away from the door. He was hugging himself now, rubbing his arms as though he'd taken a chill, though the room wasn't cold. "I've lost track. And are we even still playing that game now?"

"I don't know," the angel said honestly, drawing a quilt out of the ether and putting it around his friend's shoulders. "That's something else we need to figure out. And we will, but it doesn't have to be this very minute." Whatever form the Arrangement was to assume next, he hoped they'd have a long time ahead of them to work on it.

\---

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Aziraphale had found himself saying this an awful lot lately.

"Not in the slightest," Crowley said cheerfully, gesturing to the bucket on the bench before him. "Might want to stand back a bit from that. It's unholy water."

Aziraphale hastily backpedaled to a safe distance. The stuff wasn't as potent (or nearly as common) as the holy variety, but if he came into contact with it, it would still give him a nasty blistering rash that was slow to heal and itched abominably. "I can understand wanting to know these things, but honestly, don't you think this is pushing your luck just a little?"

Crowley had adjusted remarkably well to his new situation over the past several weeks. He'd spent a lot of time sleeping and fretting at first, but as time passed and those who sought his untimely and messy demise failed to appear (perhaps biding their time, or possibly warded off by the watchful presence of a slightly overprotective Principality,) he had rallied and begun to explore the nature and limitations of his new state of being. As he was now freed from any other responsibility and had nothing but time on his hands, this pursuit had quickly evolved into something of an obsession.

So much they knew at this point: the demon, if he could still be called a demon, was more closely tied to his human body now than he had been before. Eating and sleeping were still technically optional. However, as he was now cut off from any source of power greater than what he drew naturally from his immediate surroundings, the energy boost those mortal activities provided was sometimes all that kept him from exhausting himself just by performing simple tasks he'd never had to think twice about before. Minor miracles were still within the scope of his abilities, as long as he didn't try to overdo it; likewise almost any sort of working that applied to him personally (with the singular exception of turning himself into a heap of maggots. Needless to say, he was not overly grieved at the loss of that particular trick.) But anything that required a direct conduit to Hell or a massive surge of external power was now lost to him.

"It's not all bad," he'd observed, "at least I won't have to worry about the biospatial feedback anymore. Bloody near fried my eyeballs that last time." But the really startling side effects (and the reason for his current, slightly mad line of experimentation) they had discovered entirely by accident.

Some well-meaning soul had given Aziraphale one of those newfangled Bibles that didn't look like a Bible, but rather more like one of those big, fashionable books that were made to sit on coffee tables and serve as conversation pieces. He'd absent-mindedly left it lying on the counter, unsure what to do with it--as clearly it wasn't a _real_ Bible by any meaningful measure, and possibly bordered on sacrilegious, but it nevertheless contained The Word and was therefore not to be casually disposed of--and Crowley had wandered by and curiously picked it up, nearly discorporating out of sheer terror when he identified the thing for what it was.

Much to both their astonishment, though, it hadn't so much as singed his fingertips. Aziraphale was of the opinion that the book was simply too far removed from the genuine article to be properly toxic to demons, but Crowley wasn't so sure. "It's not the packaging that counts, angel, you know that," he'd argued. "It wouldn't matter if they did up a Playboy edition with Mary Magdalene as the centerfold in all her luscious four-color glory--"

_"Really,_ my dear."

"Well, the _point_ is, I ought to be a very dramatic Crowley-shaped splotch on your carpet right about now," he'd concluded, "and I'm not. This bears further investigation."

Several more traditional Bibles, a few churchyard expeditions, one cathedral and a few odd relics later, there seemed to be no doubt remaining: holy items no longer had any effect on Crowley. Only one test remained, and in spite of the mounting circumstantial evidence that nothing was going to happen, Aziraphale had done his best to talk his friend out of it. It would be entirely in keeping with Crowley's luck that this final item on the list would prove to be the exception to the rule. But Crowley would not be dissuaded, so here they were: Crowley with his haz-mat gear, tongs and thermos flask (plus the contents of the bucket just in case things did go terribly wrong,) and Aziraphale fretfully pacing at a cautious distance, hoping he wouldn't need to find out whether his own healing powers would now work on his colleague where they never had before.

"All right then. Here we go," Crowley announced, drawing on the heavy rubber gloves and using the tongs to unscrew the top of the flask with exaggerated care. Aziraphale watched, unaware that he was holding his breath, as Crowley then took the flask and tilted it one painstaking degree at a time, until about half an ounce of the possibly-deadly contents tipped into an ordinary shot glass sitting on the bench in front of him.

That accomplished, he moved off some distance and went through the laborious task of closing the flask, which he put into a portable lockbox and carefully secured before continuing.

Next, he removed the gloves, picked up a small box of cotton swabs and gravely selected one. "This is either going to be very painful," he remarked over his shoulder, "or terribly anticlimactic."

"Just get on with it, won't you?" the angel said shortly, fumbling out his handkerchief and dabbing at his forehead with it.

Smiling slightly to himself, Crowley carefully dipped one end of the swab into the glass, barely moistening the cotton. Noticing his hands were trembling just a bit, he paused a moment, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.

Then, just at the moment when Aziraphale thought he was going to back out after all, he suddenly brought his hands together and swiped the end of his little finger with the swab, which he immediately dropped, poising his hand over the bucket.

A second passed, and then another...

"Anything?" Aziraphale finally choked out.

An incredulous grin worked its way across Crowley's face. "Not so far. Not so much as a tingle."

"Well, thank goodness." Aziraphale looked unconvinced at first, but finally, as the moments lengthened and nothing appeared to change, he sighed and tucked his handkerchief away. "I still think it was a foolish risk to take, but I suppose it _is_ a good thing to know."

"Not much of a test though, really, is it?" Crowley asked. "I barely got it damp." Feeling cocky (and perhaps slightly delirious with relief,) he unexpectedly picked up the shot glass and dumped the rest of the water into his open palm.

He'd never seen the angel move so fast in all their days on Earth. In the span of a heartbeat, Aziraphale materialized next to him, seized his wrist and plunged his hand deep into the bucket. The water hissed, steamed and roiled momentarily, and Aziraphale yelped, but did not let go his hold.

"What the--angel, have you lost your bleeding mind?!" Yanking them both away from the bucket, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hands and examined them anxiously. The skin was angry red and already starting to blister. His own was warm and slightly pink--from the reaction between the two opposing substances, most likely--but unharmed. "What'd you go and do a daft thing like that for?" he demanded sharply.

"I was afraid you'd be _killed,_ cretin," Aziraphale said through his teeth. "Or lose a hand at least. A little warning next time, please?"

"Oh, of all the...no, don't _scratch_ at it, for fuck's sake, you'll take all the skin off. Just stand right there and don't do anything," Crowley ordered. There was nothing for it but to hastily open the lockbox, retrieve the flask and douse the injuries to neutralize the remaining unholy water. "You really think I would have tried that if I wasn't pretty sure it would turn out all right? Come on, angel, give me a little credit..."

Aziraphale sighed. "I give you more than a little, actually, but sometimes 'pretty sure' just isn't good enough."

Crowley, however, wasn't listening. He was staring thoughtfully at the painful-looking lesions scattered across the back of Aziraphale's right hand. "Hold still a second," he muttered, frowning slightly.

"All right, but what are y--oh." Aziraphale's eyes widened as a sudden warmth ran across his skin and the blisters shrank and faded, leaving no trace. Crowley could always heal humans or animals, but he had never been able to do this sort of thing for Aziraphale before; the scant handful of times he'd tried over the centuries, it had always made things worse.

Crowley was grinning again, and took care of the other hand in short order. "Well, this'll come in useful next time you do something idiotic."

Aziraphale tried to scowl, but Crowley looked so pleased with himself (and it felt so much better with the rash gone) that he just couldn't bring himself to be snippy. "Thank you," he said instead.

"No problem, angel." Crowley let go and stepped back, turning to start cleaning up the bench. "Let's just keep this in mind for the future. I may actually be more durable now than you are."

\---

Things remained quiet for some time after that, and Crowley slowly found himself settling into a new routine. Making his own decisions about pretty much everything was a strange and unfamiliar experience; after the initial novelty wore off, it proved not quite as exciting as he'd always imagined. Throughout his long existence, there had always been _someone_ around to tell him what he should be doing, and even if that person or the instructions they gave were sometimes objectionable (and frequently ignored,) the responsibility of figuring it all out for himself could be wearisome and confounding.

Some of his old duties he kept on at just out of habit, or because he found them entertaining. Without the pressure to score points toward a good performance review, though, a lot of his tempting and wiling simply lost its appeal. He'd always taken professional pride in his work, but, he was starting to realize, he really didn't find much satisfaction in causing trouble for people who hadn't done anything to him; not for its own sake.

It was easier to hang around with the angel and let himself be nudged in more productive directions, but it turned out that even without Hell's influence, he wasn't a particularly altruistic person. And he didn't like the dynamic it created between them; an uneasy sense that they were no long opposites and equals, but something else now, something that hadn't yet been defined. And wouldn't be, as long as he went on cooling his heels there, clinging to what felt safe and familiar but offered no challenges and demanded no real thought or effort.

Eventually, the need to get things sorted won out over the self-preserving instinct to stay close to home (and Aziraphale and Adam,) and he organized his affairs and struck out for a lengthy walkabout that took him across several continents and spanned several decades. Vaguely astonished at how much the rest of the world had changed while he had put down roots in England, he immersed himself with gusto in every culture he came across, secretly rejoicing when his presence brought no more chaos or misfortune to the people around him than that of any other tourist.

In the process, Crowley discovered quite a few things about himself that he hadn't had a chance to learn before. He had a gift for surfing, an unexpected fondness for cats now that they no longer hissed and spat at him every time he walked by, and was better with children than he had ever suspected. Though he'd wisely invested his severance pay and really didn't need to work, he amused himself by trying his hand at whatever trades happened to catch his fancy: cutting hair, installing internet lines, selling apples from a cart, trawling for shrimp. He didn't have to pretend to be a successful yuppie anymore, so he thoroughly enjoyed getting his hands dirty, and when he tired of that, he went and won and lost several small fortunes along the Vegas strip.

He allowed himself to have a pleasant and meaningless fling with a pretty Mexican girl, secure in the certainty that he presented no more danger to her soul than any young mortal she might choose; he left her none the wiser, with few regrets and plenty in the way of experience to offer the next lucky fellow who came along.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, stayed right where he was and quietly fretted, bored without his counterpart and inventing busywork to keep his superiors happy. The series of colorful postcards covered in rambling scrawl that he received from all over the world never failed to make him smile, though, and he stowed them safely away with all the mementoes he kept from ages past, patiently waiting for Crowley to return and fill in the gaps they left in his story.

Crowley's trip ended abruptly in the city of Rio de Janeiro the night he received an urgent wire from Soho with the news that Adam Young's life, as every mortal span must, was coming to its close. He was on a plane to London within an hour, and made it back in time to say good-bye.

After that, he never strayed far from home or stayed away very long. If Earth had ever really been safe for him, it was safe no longer.

\---

_Four hundred fifty years later..._

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" For once, it wasn't Aziraphale asking.

The angel shook his head slightly. "Well, in point of fact, no. But it's really our only option, don't you think?"

_"My_ only option, you mean," Crowley muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He'd been sitting in it more or less unmoving for a long time now, and was heartily sick of it. But then, that sentiment didn't just apply to the chair.

"Which comes down to the same thing," Aziraphale said gently. "Whether you choose to believe that or not." Seeing how unhappy Crowley looked, he added, "It should be all right. It's been a long time, you know; this one was given to me by Adam, not Heaven. I doubt they'll kick up a fuss."

Crowley nodded stiffly. "I know you've got your story in order. That's not what worries me. How can you be sure they'll send you back?" Hell had never seen fit to send anyone to replace _him,_ and he'd been dreading for eons the day when Heaven would decide its last Earthly agent was no longer required.

Aziraphale sighed. "I can't, of course. But it's a risk I'd have to take sooner or later. Better I should take it now, while it might do you some good. Are you ready?"

"No. But I suppose we'd better do it anyway." Crowley watched resignedly as Aziraphale seated himself in the chair opposite and leaned back, shutting his eyes. After a moment he did the same, ignoring a variety of aches and pains, major and minor, that arose with even the smallest motion.

To an outside observer, it would appear that the two men in the chairs went to sleep at the same time. The reality was, in fact, something entirely different.

Aziraphale rose first, ethereal wings unfurling as he left his mortal body behind him in the chair like an abandoned blanket. He hovered near it, maintaining its vital functions until Crowley had extricated himself from his own body, standing and stretching with a groan of heartfelt relief.

_I imagine that feels better,_ the angel said wordlessly.

_You have no idea._ Crowley looked down at the empty mortal shell that had seen him through so much, watching with mixed feelings as it took its last few shallow breaths. _It was a good one, though. Didn't owe me a thing._

_I know._ Aziraphale smiled sadly. The loss of a corporation didn't carry the same emotional weight as a true death, but it certainly brought with it a sense that an era was passing. _But they do wear out eventually. And after what Hastur did to it that last time, you're fortunate it held out this long._

Crowley's eyes--which were a pale, luminous grey color when he fully assumed his true form--glinted for a moment with malicious satisfaction. _At least we finally put the bastard down for good._

_Yes._ He didn't want to rush this, but Aziraphale could only effectively sustain his own body for so long when he wasn't actually in it. _Now you remember where I keep the keys, and the ledger, and the reserved volumes?_

Some of those 'reserved volumes' had been 'reserved' since 1992, Crowley recalled. He doubted anyone would be coming to pick them up at this late date. _Yes, angel, you've only told me about fifteen times. Don't worry. I'll take good care of the place while you're gone. And I won't sell a thing._

_Very good. I'll hold you to that. In you go, then, before it gets cold._

Crowley drifted to the other chair and eyed its pudgy blond occupant dubiously. _This is going to be incredibly weird._

_No doubt, but I know you'll manage. One is fundamentally much like another. It's all in sorting out the details, really._ Aziraphale gestured. _Go on, now._

Reluctantly, Crowley slid into the chair and into the strange, confining weight of the angel's discarded body. It felt all wrong as he settled in and slowly straightened up; the proportions and temperature and center of gravity were all slightly but significantly off. (And also wrapped head to toe in genuine tweed, which hadn't even been made in nearly two centuries.) But it was all in working order and completely free of pain, which was by far the most important consideration.

Turning to look in Aziraphale's direction, he saw the now-hazy form of the angel recoil slightly. "Wha--ugh." He cleared his throat and took a moment to adjust his vocal cords into a lower range so that his voice sounded more like his own. "What's the matter?"

_Nothing. It's just--your eyes. Gave me a bit of a turn._

"Oh. Right." Rather than retrieve the pair he'd left with his old body, he called a new pair of sunglasses into being and put them on, not needing a mirror to know what had happened. "Sorry. I wish I knew why they always do that."

_It doesn't matter. It's yours now. Soon you'll forget it was ever anything else._

Unsure whether he liked that idea or not, Crowley forbore to comment, but carefully levered himself out of the chair, swaying a bit as he got used to the new equipment. "Well, now I know why I always let you nick my dessert. How the hell do you navigate in this thing? Don't you get stuck in doorways?"

_I won't dignify that with a reply,_ came the slightly tart rejoinder. _Just look after it carefully, won't you? It's got plenty of wear left in it as long as you don't go doing anything silly._

"Barring any of Hastur's friends decide to come avenge him--if he had any--I don't foresee any problems." Crowley certainly wasn't going to take unnecessary risks. Having to sponge off the angel like this once was bad enough, and probably wouldn't be possible a second time. If it worked out as planned _this_ time. "You'd better get going. The sooner you get up there and start on the paperwork, the sooner you're home." He hoped. "Just don't let those arsehalos push you around."

_All right. Take care of yourself, Crowley._

"Always," he said, adding belatedly, "You, too," but the faintly glowing apparition had already faded into the ether.

Feeling terribly alone, Crowley stood there in the bookshop's back room, looking around somewhat helplessly. The place was his, at least for the time being, and he had a lawyer to contact, a burial to arrange and now two businesses* to run; but it all seemed rather pointless at the moment, not knowing whether there'd ever be anyone else here to care what he did or didn't do.

Eventually he made his way to the holographic wall panel and got down to business (yes, even Aziraphale had finally broken down and had a real console installed, though this model was predictably several decades out of date.) The world had changed dramatically, and paper books had grown increasingly rare and valuable; Crowley thought he was now sitting on one of the largest remaining repositories anywhere in the world. Rare and valuable, but almost never actually read anymore. He wasn't sure whether the pang of regret occasioned by that thought was his own, or something left over in this body's synapses from its previous occupant.

Between getting his own and the angel's affairs sorted out, reworking the body into something he could envision spending centuries in, and the day-to-day running of both businesses, Crowley managed to keep himself occupied sufficiently most days not to miss or worry about Aziraphale overmuch. It wasn't as though they'd never spent long periods of time away from each other before, he told himself; it was just that before, it had always been more or less a given that he _would_ see the angel again, sooner or later. He hadn't realized just how much he'd come to depend on that eventuality until it was taken away.

On an ordinary afternoon many months later, he stood idly among the stacks, flipping through one of the few Wilde first editions still known to exist, and remembering.

A hand reached over his shoulder to take the book out of his suddenly-nerveless grasp as a familiar voice said, "Dear boy, whatever _are_ you doing, standing around woolgathering when there's three carts of new arrivals to shelve?"

Crowley turned to find the angel regarding him with an expression of grave rebuke, but his clear blue eyes were smiling like a sunrise. "I suppose now I'll have to go through and reorganize the place from top to bottom again. Such a bother."

It would have been terminally uncool to hug him, so Crowley said instead as casually as he could manage, "Probably. But why don't you leave that til after dinner? I haven't had my dessert stolen in ages."

The Ritz had been turned into a museum some fifty years prior, but they didn't let that stop them.

"So did they give you any flak about...stuff?" Crowley asked over roast pheasant and asparagus tips.

"Not really." Aziraphale took a sip of wine and sighed happily. "There was the expected red tape, of course, but no one even alluded to the Apocalypse incident. I really do think they've written it off as water under the bridge."

Crowley considered that for a bit. "I don't get it," he said finally. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm delighted to have you back. ...Don't read too much into that, now, it's just that I'm really not cut out to be a bookshop owner." He scowled slightly at the angel's knowing smirk. "And obviously just because I got the boot doesn't mean the same's automatically going to happen to you. But speaking from bitter experience, Heaven's just not that forgiving. Something doesn't jive."

Aziraphale frowned uneasily. "Frankly, I'm inclined to agree. But if there's some nefarious plot behind it all, it's beyond my ability to suss it out. Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth, at least until the bill is presented, shall we?"

"I'll drink to that." Crowley picked up the wine bottle and refilled both their glasses, letting the matter drop. "Oh, by the way, I've got a bone to pick with you..."

"Mm? What's that?" Aziraphale raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Do you have _any idea_ what a colossal pain in the arse it's been trying to drop those last five pounds?"

\---

_Five hundred-odd years after that..._

The sky was raining fire. Aziraphale and Crowley stood out front of what had once been the bookshop, under an umbrella that was somehow impervious to the deadly rain, watching in grim silence.

"It's really happening this time, isn't it?" Crowley said at last.

"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale said softly.

"They didn't say anything to you?"

"I think they wanted to make sure I wouldn't foul this one up."

Crowley snorted. "And we wondered why they sent you back down here..."

Before the worldwide psionovid network had gone down, it had delivered terrifying visions of what was happening now in the Holy Land. Most of the surviving population of London was either fled or in hiding. None of them would last much longer, but little though they realized it, death had now become a somewhat trivial concern for the mortals; those who succumbed would soon awaken to join all who had gone before them in witnessing the greatest spectacle of this or any other age. Some would go on from there to dwell in eternal paradise; others...well, it was probably best not to think too much about the others.

Then again, for certain third parties, not thinking such things was a luxury they didn't have.

"We really ought to have known it was just a dry run, that first time. You know?" Crowley asked offhandedly. "The Book never said anything about Lower Tadfield."

"Well, not in so many words, no. But Anathema's cards--"

"Not that Book, you moron. The _other_ Book."

"Oh." Aziraphale turned pink. "Well, no, I suppose not."

Crowley scuffed the ground restlessly with his heel. "I'm...actually at a bit of a loss, here. There's nothing written anywhere about Fallen angels who've also been canned by Hell." When Aziraphale turned to look at him, he added, "Believe me, I've looked. Which side am I supposed to be fighting on? Do you think?"

The angel regarded him solemnly. "Whichever side seems best to you, I suppose."

"And if I don't want to fight at all?"

"I don't honestly know, Crowley." Aziraphale shook his head. "Whether you do or not, there won't be an Earth left at the end. You'll have to choose a side, or have one chosen for you."

"Yeah, some choice. Neither side wants me. I am getting the most awful sense of deja vu," Crowley mumbled. "Nothing left to lose and no place left to run. And no Adam around this time to pull the whole world's arse out of the fire." He heaved a sigh. "I suppose I'll figure something out. I always do. Just let me go get my tyre iron, then; we've got a long flight ahead of us."

"I don't think any of the airlines are still operating..."

"Not _that_ kind of flight." Crowley refrained with difficulty from smacking him upside the head. "For Somebody's sake, angel, what is it about Apocalypses that makes your brain throw a fucking rod?"

\---

The Valley of Megiddo was unsurprisingly a terrifying, chaotic mess. The final conflict was well under way by the time the two friends touched down a safe distance off, wearily winching in their wings and observing from the top of a tall hill that overlooked the battlefield.

Various familiar figures could be picked out even at this distance by the distinctive coronas of power that surrounded them: Michael brandishing a flaming sword in the vanguard of Heaven's forces, mowing down demons by the thousands; Lucifer in all his terrifying brilliance, rallying the Legion to counterattack; red War cutting a broad (and seemingly indiscriminate) path through anything that got in her way. Azrael--the Angel of Death--could not be seen, but the sense of his presence was everywhere, permeating the entire region. No doubt the other Horsemen, the new Antichrist and all the other great figures of the Revelation were down there somewhere as well, all playing out their assigned parts.

Crowley took it all in with an air of pale composure that Aziraphale had come to recognize as the state he arrived at when he'd overshot panic entirely and landed hard on the other side. "Guess this is it, then." He had, in fact, stopped at a museum that hadn't been fully looted to pick up a sword this time; oddly enough, a blessed sword that had once belonged to a true knight. Aziraphale found the choice telling, though Crowley hadn't actually declared which side he planned to take.

A mighty trumpet call split the air, drawing their eyes to a tall figure on another hilltop, and the ground trembled underfoot. Crowley smirked. "Blow, Gabriel, blow."

"Really, my dear."

"Sorry, couldn't resist." Crowley shook his head. "Just for the record, I really, really don't want to be here."

"I know." Aziraphale shook his head as a high wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He shared the sentiment, but as an angel of the Lord about to carry out his final duty on Earth, he really wasn't at liberty to say so. "If you could be anywhere right now--in any time, with everything back the way it was--where do you think would you choose?"

Crowley weighed his answer as though they had all the time in the world. "London," he said at last, "in January of 1895."

Aziraphale smiled. "Just waking from your long nap..."

"And learning how the world had changed," Crowley agreed. "That was a good time. Exciting times." He hefted his sword, taking a few experimental swings. "Pity it all has to end here."

"We always knew it would, sooner or later." Aziraphale was unarmed. The sword that had been given to him in the beginning had been needed for other things, and he trusted now that whatever weapon he required would find its way to him at the proper time. "Crowley? I realize you're in a terrible jam, but I'm still glad that...you know, it means we don't have to fight each other now."

"Yeah. Me too." Crowley squared his shoulders, unfurling his wings once more. Everything else that needed to be said had been said, all those years ago in Lower Tadfield. "You ready?"

"I am." The angel did the same. "Be careful, Crowley. I'll look for you when it's over."

They lifted off in unison, circled once on a smoky updraft, and dove into the fray, losing sight of each other almost at once as the fury of battle closed in on all sides.

\---

* He'd finally settled on a career as a personal counselor. It allowed him to be helpful, subversive or indifferent as he preferred, and no matter what advice he offered from his somewhat unique perspective on the human condition, his mortal clients would pretty much do whatever the hell they saw fit. While paying him a princely sum for the privilege. Life, the occasional demonic assassination attempt notwithstanding, was good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course everyone knew there would be consequences, and that the world would have to end _sometime_. A story about What Happened After, with guest appearances by Him Below, the four Archangels and the Big Cahuna Himself. Written as a gift for lemonfruitfish for the 2008 Good Omens Exchange on Livejournal.
> 
> ...They're not mine, obviously.

The little Virtue wasn't sure how he had got into this mess. The Captain had said it was time to fight--the Final Battle that would bring everything to completion. So he had picked up his sword and gone with the rest of his Choir, trusting that Heaven would triumph, just as the Plan said.

It hadn't really occurred to him to wonder just what part had been written for him, personally, but apparently it involved being stuck behind enemy lines with no idea how to get back to the relative safety of the Host.

Still, he wasn't doing too badly. Every demon that had come at him so far had gone off again missing an appendage or stuck full of holes. He wasn't sure whether he'd actually killed any of them, and wasn't entirely clear on whether he was supposed to; they were the Enemy, but they were also his long-lost kin, and served the Plan in their own fashion. The bodies of several angels he'd come across, though, had shown him that the Enemy had no such compunction about killing _his_ people, so he didn't trouble himself too much about what happened to them, as long as they left him alone.

It seemed odd to him that he was so frightened. Michael certainly wasn't afraid, nor any of his lieutenants, nor the other Archangels. But he was. He supposed there must be some reason why his Lord required it of him, though he didn't understand why. Fighting would be a lot easier if he didn't feel so shaky. And he was starting to get tired, too.

A shout brought him out of his momentary reverie, and he wearily raised his sword as another opponent came running at him. Not just one of Hell's foot soldiers, he realized with a stab of dread; this one was particularly hideous and very, very powerful. A Duke, maybe. Bigger than he was, definitely. He also had four arms, two of which held big, serrated blades. The angel's heart sank further when he spotted a second demon coming in from another direction, but then the big one was on him and he needed all his attention just to hold that one off.

It was a matter of seconds before his opponent slipped past his guard and sliced a deep furrow in his sword arm. The Virtue cried out, dropped his weapon and backpedaled frantically, expecting the other demon to come in behind him and finish the job. Instead, to his confusion, he saw the two of them square off as though they were about to fight each other.

"Well, well. If it isn't good old Crawly," snarled the Duke-or-whatever-he-was. "Looking to slither back into the fold before the hammer falls, are we?"

"Maybe," said the other cautiously.

"Yeah, well, fat chance. Angel-loving traitor. You should've thought twice before you and your halo buddy took out Hastur. No demon in the Legion will back you now for any price." The big demon spat on the ground. "Better skulk back to your hidey-hole, or as soon as I do for this one it'll be your turn."

Crowley raised both hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, Hastur was strictly a matter of self-defense. I'd have let bygones be bygones if he hadn't kept trying to kill me. You hated him anyway, Dagon, don't try to tell me you didn't."

It occurred to the Virtue suddenly that the big one, Dagon, couldn't attack him again until he'd got rid of this Crawly. He wouldn't dare turn his back on the other demon. Unobtrusively, the angel began to creep backward, hoping to get out of harm's way while the distraction lasted.

"So what? At least he didn't keep company with scum-sucking harp-playing pansies like this one." One of the swordless arms suddenly whipped a dagger in the Virtue's direction, missing his head by about a tenth of an inch. Terrified again, he froze in place, not daring to move. "Guess your playmate couldn't wrangle you a pass Upstairs, huh? Sad, sad. You just can't count on anybody these days, huh?" Crawly's face might as well have been carved of stone, and Dagon chuckled diabolically.

"Well, I'll tell you what." A malicious grin split the Duke's face, making it, if possible, even more horrible than before. "I've killed me a lot of angels today, and I'm feeling magnanimous. So maybe I'll cut you a deal after all." He pointed at the Virtue. "Finish this one off for me and I'll put in a good word for you with the Boss. No promises, mind. He must've been plenty ticked to throw you out on your ass. But the way I see it, your options are, shall we say, limited."

Crawly snorted. "What, is that all? One terrified little Virtue? Hell's favors never used to come so cheap." He walked up to the prone angel and set the point of his sword at his throat, reaching down to pull the dagger out of the ground beside him. Serpentine yellow eyes met crystalline blue, and the angel commended himself to his Lord.

_Michael's force is to the east. Run,_ echoed forcefully through his mind. The next second the dagger was flying at Dagon, Crawly was parrying one sword as another lunged at his midsection, and the Virtue was on his feet and sprinting for his life, offering a prayer of thanks and asking mercy for the Enemy who'd turned out to be a friend.

\---

Aziraphale's sword flared as it ran through the demon in front of him, and he yanked it back, watching numbly as his Enemy shrieked and went up in flames. He'd lost count of how many that made. It had been hard at first, forcing himself to take the lives of others, even the Fallen who were trying to take his. But repetition and necessity, and the memory of the dead angel whose sword he had picked up and whose death he had avenged, made it easier.

He hadn't seen Crowley since joining the battle. He desperately wanted it to end, and was desperately afraid of what would happen when it did. Provided they both survived so long, he would keep his promise and find his friend, but...what then?

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait that long. Michael's forces pushed back the front line, and as he picked his way across the blasted landscape, he came upon an abandoned sword he recognized. The blade was bloodstained, partly melted and twisted into a crazy shape, but there was no mistaking the elaborate cruciform hilt.

Aziraphale picked it up and stared at it dumbly for a moment, then looked around, swallowing a sudden sick feeling that rose in his throat. "Crowley?" he called, his voice cracking on the name.

The battle receded into meaningless background noise as he combed the area, calling out with growing desperation and getting no response.

Finally, _finally,_ as he was starting to think it might be a lost cause, he heard a quiet cough and a rasping "Here," and skirted around the smoldering remains of a very large demon to find Crowley lying on the other side, bloodied and curled up tightly around himself.

"Hey, angel," he wheezed, feebly attempting a smile, "did we win?"

Aziraphale sank down next to him, his relief short-lived as he realized how much blood there was. "I don't know. The fighting's moved on a ways. How badly are you hurt?"

"Bad enough." Crowley glanced at the nearby corpse. "Gave better'n I got, though. Dagon wasn't expecting a holy pigsticker."

"Well done. Here, let me see." Crowley reluctantly moved his arms away from the injury, and the angel stifled a gasp and immediately laid hands on him, recklessly pouring energy into the attempt to heal it.

Crowley whimpered a little at the sensation, trying not to squirm. "Dunno if it's worth it...he tore me up pretty good."

"Shh. Don't talk like that." Unfortunately, Crowley wasn't wrong. The damage extended beyond the physical; whatever sorcery empowered Dagon's blade was undoubtedly designed with killing angels in mind, but it definitely hadn't done Crowley any good. Aziraphale was able to stem the bleeding and repair some of the worst damage, and he could effectively suppress the pain, but to really put everything right would take both power and skill beyond what he possessed. "Is that better?"

"Yeah. Doesn't hurt anymore. Thanks." Crowley shut his eyes. He was shivering. Aziraphale carefully turned him and gathered him in close, wrapping his wings protectively around them both and gently encouraging his friend's laboring heart to keep beating. As near as he could guess, it was a fifty-fifty chance that Crowley would survive if his body kept functioning, but the angel was fairly certain that a discorporation would be too much for him right now.

Bereft of any other help or comfort, he turned at last to the one place he'd always been able to find both.

_Please...I don't know if I'm even allowed to do this. I don't know what You have in mind for Crowley, or if his part in the Plan is finished. But if it has been given to me to find him again before the end, there must be a reason. Please, show me what it is. Lend me the strength I need, to help him live or to help him let go. I am the instrument of Your will. Tell me what I must do. Help me._

How long he kept on like that, silently beseeching as Crowley dozed fitfully in his arms, he had no idea. The sounds of battle drew nearer again, but, knowing he couldn't sustain Crowley while simultaneously defending them both--and that, finding them there together, the forces of either side were equally likely to attack first and ask questions later--he commended both their fates to a power greater than his own, and ignored the clamor.

_"Hello?"_ A clear voice came ringing across the field. _"Is anyone alive out here?"_

Aziraphale's head snapped up as he fitted a name to the voice. "Raphael," he breathed. _"Hello, yes, we're here!"_ Surely this was the answer he'd been praying for. If there was one angel in all the Host who might be persuaded to help...

"Whozzit?" Crowley muttered groggily.

"It's Raphael, dear heart. The Healer," Aziraphale told him as the archangel came into view.

"Great. Where d'you think he stands on euthanasia?"

"Shush!"

Raphael vaulted over a pile of dead demons and paused in surprise. "Aziraphale? I didn't think you were here. Gabriel said you were a no-show."

"Someone apparently forgot to send me the memo," Aziraphale said bitterly.

"Oh they did, did they?" Raphael frowned as he came up on them and knelt. "Well, we'll just have to see about that. Now who's this?"

"A...a friend." Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale let his wings fall open. Crowley blinked at the sudden light, his sunglasses long since lost in the battle, and waved sheepishly.

Raphael startled to his feet, backing away. "Aziraphale, what are you..."

"It's all right. He's not one of them," Aziraphale said desperately.

"Not one of them? How do you figure?" Raphael shook his head, eyeing Crowley doubtfully. "He's clearly not one of _us,_ and as far as I know we only come in two flavors."

"See?" Crowley sighed and closed his eyes again, letting his head sink on Aziraphale's shoulder. "I knew it wouldn't fly. Just make it quick, won't you, Raph? I've had enough of sitting around leaking."

"Raphael, listen. Crowley hasn't been on Hell's payroll for centuries. Lucifer cut him loose soon after the Tadfield incident," Aziraphale persisted. "Holy items don't hurt him anymore. He killed that demon there with a sanctified blade--what's left of it is just over there to your left if you don't believe me. I don't know what he _is,_ but _he is not one of them."_ He swallowed hard. "But he is badly hurt and I've done as much as I can for him."

Raphael ran a hand through his hair, seemingly at a loss. "I don't know," he said slowly, "this is a lot to swallow, Aziraphale. I heard you'd gone a bit cracked with all that time you spent down here, and that you were keeping some mighty strange company, but honestly..."

Dropping his eyes, Aziraphale hugged Crowley close and started to close his wings up again. "Believe whatever you want. I don't care, but if you won't help, then please just go away. I'm sure there's no shortage of angels around here who need you. And I don't want to fight you." He felt Crowley tense at that, and patted his back soothingly. He would fight Raphael off to protect his friend, if it came to that, but he very much doubted it would.

He nearly wept with relief when Raphael came back to kneel before them again. "I didn't say I wouldn't help," he sighed. "But it's all very irregular, and frankly, I'm not sure it's the kindest thing to do. Lucifer will be surrendering any time now if he wants to have any minions left to rule, and we all know what comes after that. What will your friend do then?"

"Hello. Sitting right here," Crowley grumbled. "I'll burn that bridge when I get to it. Are you going to patch up this bloody great hole or not?"

Raphael's mouth twitched in a suggestion of a smile. "Well, let's have a look at it."

Aziraphale laid Crowley carefully on the ground between them, and the moment the archangel set eyes on the ugly wound, any hesitation vanished before the instincts of the Healer. "Oh, that is nasty," he said softly. "All right then--sorry, what's your name?"

Crowley coughed. "Anthony J. Crowley, at your service."

"All right then, Crowley, just try to relax and keep as still as possible. This may take a while."

It did, and it wasn't pleasant for anyone involved, but by the time Raphael had finished his work, Crowley's immediate survival was no longer in question. The archangel sat back and wiped his forehead, studying his patient thoughtfully. "That's not a Hell-issue body," he observed, "but it's not one of ours either. And it's two owners from new, if I'm not mistaken. Where'd it come from?"

"Adam Young," Aziraphale said simply.

"Long story," Crowley added, slowly sitting upright and poking experimentally at the half-healed scar across his abdomen.

"Now, you leave that alone," Raphael said sternly, pushing himself to his feet. "I suppose it must be a long story, but I haven't got time to hear it right now. You two keep your heads down until the fighting's wrapped up, and for goodness' sake don't let Michael see you until I get back to you. I need to consult with some of the others. I don't think anyone's made any provisions for what to do about defectors."

"Right, heads down. Got it. Thanks! ...Now why does that not surprise me?" Crowley remarked as Raphael headed off.

"Because it's entirely typical and as inconvenient for us as possible?" Aziraphale sighed. "Well, you heard him. I'm going to take that as official sanction to find a good hiding place and stay there for the duration. Come on." He helped Crowley up and supported him as they trudged off in search of a place to hole up and wait things out.

\---

The forces of Hell were routed, and Lucifer delivered his surrender to Michael in fulfillment of the Scriptures. Aziraphale and Crowley were forced out of their hiding place as teams of angels swept the valley, rounding up the surviving demon wounded and driving or hauling them to join their brethren at the place of the Final Judgement. They managed to evade notice for a while--by playing dead, on one occasion--but Crowley couldn't move very fast, and eventually one of the patrols caught sight of them.

"You there! Halt and be recognized!"

"Aziraphale. Principality of the Third Sphere," Aziraphale said, stopping and raising his hands. Crowley followed suit as best he could, though straightening up fully was still something of a challenge.

The angel who approached had the no-nonsense look of someone who'd been given an order and had every intention of carrying it out, and extenuating circumstances be damned. "What are you doing out here with this one?" he demanded, sparing Crowley a contemptuous glance. "The Principalities are already gathered on the other side of the field. We have to get these bastards together so the Judgement can commence."

"I don't suppose you'd believe I'm his prisoner?" Crowley inserted helpfully.

Half a second later he was staring at the angel's mailed fist, hovering scent centimeters from his face, and Aziraphale's white-knuckled hand clamped around the wrist it was attached to. "Right. Shutting up now..."

"He is with me," Aziraphale said flatly, shoving the patrolman back, "and I am acting under Raphael's authority. Do you know where he is?"

The other angel gave him a deeply unfriendly look. "I report to Michael. I have no idea where your Healer would be, and he has no jurisdiction where this lot is concerned. Either surrender him to my custody immediately or you'll answer to the Captain."

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged grim glances. "I guess we'd better go talk to Michael, then," Aziraphale said with a sigh.

\---

"Aziraphale." Considering he had just won the battle for which he had been created and had waited so many long centuries to fight, Michael did not look happy. "I might have known you'd turn up and throw a wrench in the works. What, one botched Apocalypse wasn't enough for you?"

Aziraphale folded his arms defensively over his chest. "I'm not trying to make your life difficult, Captain. If you'd just tell me where Raphael has got to, I'm sure we can get this all sorted out without a fuss..."

"Raphael is ministering to the wounded. _Our_ wounded," Michael emphasized, glaring at Crowley, who all things considered, seemed remarkably calm and self-possessed. Aziraphale wondered what kind of meltdown he was saving up for a quiet moment. If he ever got another quiet moment. "Unlike some people I could name, he knows which side he's on and does his job."

"What makes you so certain I'm not doing mine?" Aziraphale shot back. "Must I remind yet another of Heaven's Princes just Whose Plan it is that really counts here? If He was dissatisfied with my performance, don't you think He would have made His displeasure known before now?"

"It isn't for me to second-guess Him," Michael said, "and in case you hadn't noticed, your friend here? Is not exactly overflowing with His grace. That should be enough to tell you which side of the line he belongs on."

"Matthew 5:44-45," Aziraphale retorted. "Or if you prefer, Luke 6:37. Are we, His servants, to hold ourselves to lesser standards than He sets for His chosen people?"

"Don't you quote Scripture at me, you..." Michael's hands curled into fists at his sides. "...you know what, I really don't have time for this." Seizing Crowley by the scruff of the neck and ignoring his surprised yelp, he turned and marched out of his encampment toward the place where Hell's forces had been assembled.

"Michael, wait! Please!" Aziraphale tugged ineffectually for a moment against the hold of his guards. "...oh, bugger all this for a lark," he snapped. He'd seen Crowley do it umpteen times, it couldn't be _that_ hard...

Maggots were, of course, entirely out of the question. The surprised guards abruptly found themselves flanking a mass of fuzzy caterpillars that wriggled away in all directions, reassembling well out of their reach into a winged form that took off flying even before they'd all got back into their proper places.

\---

"Can't we talk about this?" Crowley asked without much hope as Michael half-dragged him up to the edge of the holding area. "Seriously, those people like me even less than you do. When they get together to hang you in effigy Downstairs, guess who'll get elected to be the effigy?"

"Don't you ever shut up?" Michael grumbled. "I'll say this much for Aziraphale, he must have a guano-load more patience than I do to have put up with you all this time..."

"I grow on people. Like athlete's foot. Or mange," Crowley said. It occurred to him that he probably wasn't helping his own case, but the sound of his own voice was about the only thing staving off complete panic at this point. "Come on, I'm begging you here. You must have an opening for a whipping boy or a potato-peeler or something..."

Michael ignored him, breaking through the line of guards and dumping him unceremoniously (and somewhat painfully) on the ground. Panting a little and holding his half-healed gut, Crowley rolled onto his back and looked up...into the preternaturally beautiful face of his old boss.

"My badness. Crowley. And still alive," Lucifer said bemusedly, raising his eyebrows. He was looking somewhat the worse for wear, his ornate armor dented and scuffed, part of his golden hair burnt away and an assortment of minor cuts and scratches scattered across his once-flawless skin; but the diamond-hard eyes hadn't changed, and neither had the smoothly seductive voice. "I confess I'd nearly forgotten about you. Small Universe, isn't it?"

Crowley grinned lopsidedly. "Surprise. Sorry about Hastur and Dagon. Er, and Ligur, while I'm at it. I've just got unaccountably attached to not being killed, you know?"

"You took out Dagon, too?" the Morningstar sighed. "You know, in retrospect, perhaps instead of laying you off I should have just promoted you. You'd probably have done less damage that way. ...oh, I say, Michael," he called as the archangel started to walk away, "as much as I appreciate the gift, I'm afraid I really can't accept."

Michael froze and slowly turned to look over his shoulder. "...what?"

Lucifer shrugged. "He's not one of mine. And frankly, I have no use for him."

Michael swiveled around and stalked purposefully back to stand face to face with his former kinsman, arms akimbo. "Well, he's not one of _ours,_ " he growled. "That means, by default, he goes with you."

"No," said Lucifer pleasantly, "it doesn't. I am bound by the terms of my surrender to accept the Damned into my kingdom, and Crowley here no longer qualifies. If he ever actually did. I'm none too clear on that particular." He made a dismissive gesture. "At any rate, he's not part of the deal, and I won't have him."

Michael's fingers drummed against his thigh, the only outward sign of his agitation. "You just had to be difficult about this, didn't you?"

Lucifer looked affronted. "Me? My dear Michael, I am about to depart to an eternity of unpleasantness the likes of which _you,_ favored son of the Silver City, cannot possibly envision. The one consolation granted to me by Our Father in exchange for this sacrifice, and the _only_ reason I have not pressed my campaign to the bitter end," he was now standing toe to toe with Michael, speaking so softly Crowley had to strain to hear, "is that I am to be given absolute and uncontested authority over my dominion."

"But--"

_"Absolute,_ Michael!" Lucifer roared. Several nearby Crowns of Satan and a number of angelic guards were now looking their way. "Now if you wish to breach the terms of our agreement, forcing me to waste the lives of who knows how many more of your people and mine before this sad charade concludes, all for the sake of one inconsequential little outcast--be my guest." He stepped back, smiling politely. The fractured brightness in his eyes left little doubt that he would carry out his threat. "Personally, I'd just bite the bullet and call it a day, but then I never did understand the workings of the military mind. It's your call."

Michael shut his eyes for a moment, and Crowley wondered whether he was praying for guidance or just counting to ten. "You'd do it, wouldn't you, you mad bastard? It has nothing to do with Crowley. All that matters to you is your own damned pride."

"Got it in one. You're cleverer than I gave you credit for." Lucifer looked past Michael. "Ah, but here comes someone with a slightly different perspective." Aziraphale had made it to the ring of guards, and was now peering anxiously between two of them, dithering for all he was worth. Lucifer nodded to him, then leaned in close to Michael, murmuring, "You know he's really much wiser in his way than either you or I. Which do you think would be the greater crime in His eyes: to spare one who does not deserve mercy? Or to damn one who does?"

Michael dropped his eyes, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He was spared from answering, though, by a sudden shout from outside the ring: "Michael! I think you really ought to hear this."

"What is it, Gabriel? --- _You_ stay here," Michael pointed at Crowley, and turned on his heel, marching out of the ring and past Aziraphale without a word.

"Oaf," Lucifer muttered, and smiled apologetically at Crowley. "Well, never say I didn't try."

"He's right, though," Crowley said contemplatively, still flat on his back, staring at the smoke-shrouded sky. "You didn't do it for me."

"Perhaps not," the Morningstar conceded, "but all other things being equal, I'd just as soon see one of us get some of our own back. Since it's clearly not going to be me, it may as well be you."

The Crowns frowned and muttered among themselves, but none dared to challenge that assessment.

\---

"All right, Gabriel, what's so important?" Michael asked impatiently. He gave a perfunctory nod to Raphael, who was tending a Virtue's wounded arm.

"Zachariel, tell the Captain what you told us," Gabriel prompted gently.

Zachariel, wide-eyed at personally addressing the great Captain, said timidly, "Sir, that demon you just put in with the others...he saved my life in the battle."

Michael glanced at the other Archangels, both of whom nodded. "Go on, Zachariel."

"There was another demon, a very large one with two swords. His name was Dagon. He...he was going to kill me. Then this Crawly came and fought him so that I could get away."

Michael sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "Zachariel, I don't doubt your word, but I think you may have misunderstood what you saw. The Fallen aren't like us. They war among themselves. It was probably just a coincidence that Craw--Crowley happened along in time to distract Dagon..."

Zachariel shook his head. "N-no, Sir," he said firmly. "Dagon spoke to him as if--as if he was in disgrace. He said if Crowley killed me, he'd try to help him win favor with L-lucifer." He swallowed. "I thought he was going to do it. But he told me to run, told me which way to go, and then he attacked Dagon. There was no mistake. He protected me, and he risked himself to do it."

Michael rubbed the back of his neck. "I see. Thank you, Zachariel."

The Virtue nodded, and asked hesitantly, "Sir? If it's not too impertinent to ask--what's going to happen to him? Will he really go to Hell with the others?"

Gazing at nothing in particular, Michael said, "I honestly don't know..."

Raphael completed his ministrations and sent the little Virtue off to rest. "Well," he said, "it seems we have a bit of a dilemma on our hands."

"That's one way of putting it," Michael snapped. "Trust Aziraphale to redeem a demon, but only do the job halfway."

"That's more than anybody else has ever managed," Raphael pointed out mildly.

"Sure, but _he_ doesn't have to deal with the fallout." Michael folded his arms. "That little Principality is a mystery to me. I still haven't figured out how he didn't Fall after Lower Tadfield, and don't even get me started on the Garden. But Crowley's the real problem right now. Lucifer says he won't take him, and he's willing to break truce to prove his point."

"That sounds like Lucifer," Gabriel sighed. "I suppose that means we get to keep him."

"And do what with him?" Michael made a frustrated gesture. "I know I'm coming across as the bad guy here, but even I wouldn't just leave him here on an Earth that's not going to exist much longer. We could label him a righteous unbeliever and dump him in Limbo, I suppose."

"He wouldn't be happy there," Raphael said. "I've only met him the once, but he and Aziraphale are a pair, that much is obvious. They belong together. ...hello, Uriel."

The fourth archangel smiled at his brethren as he took a seat. "Hello, all. Well done. Michael, well fought. I think He should be pleased." He looked around, and seeing three troubled faces, added, "Now what are we discussing?"

"Aziraphale and Crowley," Gabriel said. "They've presented us with a rather unique challenge."

"Oh, of course." Uriel nodded. "I had a feeling that would come up before all was said and done."

"You could have shared with the rest of the class," Michael grumbled. "But I suppose I should have seen it coming, too. They never did quite fit the mold, not from the very Beginning."

"We all could have shown a little more foresight. What matters now is deciding what to do," Gabriel said, "and we had better do it quickly. The Judgement is almost upon us. Do we play straight by the rules, leave Crowley with Lucifer, and hope we don't wind up with a second battle to fight? Or do we err on the side of caution, send him to Limbo and call it good enough?" He spread his hands. "Personally, I'm leaning toward Limbo. I mean, granted it's not an ideal solution, but it's got to be better than Hell or being left here on Earth. At least then Aziraphale could visit him and know he was all right."

Raphael tapped the tabletop in front of him thoughtfully. "We could go one better," he suggested, "and take him back to Heaven."

Michael snorted. "Oh, good idea. I'm sure the pyrotechnics display would be unforgettable..."

Raphael smiled. "Aziraphale says holy items no longer affect Crowley. And his aura no longer reads as infernal to me. I think he would be all right."

"Really." Michael rubbed his forehead. "I hadn't noticed. Well, that changes things, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps. Even if he _can_ survive there, I'm not sure living among angels who are in a state of grace for all eternity would be that much of a thrill to one who isn't," Gabriel said dubiously.

Michael nodded. "Point. It would help if He would give us a clue what He wants done..."

Raphael shook his head. "If He wanted to weigh in on this, the Metatron would have come around by now to say so. He wants us to figure this one out for ourselves."

Uriel looked very thoughtful. "Has it occurred to anyone," he asked suddenly, looking around at the others, "to ask Crowley and Aziraphale what _they_ want?"

\---

Crowley and Aziraphale, meanwhile, were sitting on either side of the ring of guards, as close as they could get without actually touching the watchful angels. Like everyone else on the field, they were watching the sky grow brighter. The valley was now lined from one side to the other with humans; some frightened and confused, others breathless with excitement, praying and singing in jubilation. Soon their numbers would swell into the billions, covering a vast swath of the Earth in a single immense crowd. No matter how far out they might be standing, all would witness what was to come as though from front-row seats.

"It'll be soon now, won't it?" Crowley asked.

"I think so." Aziraphale's eyes had lit with a soft blue glow. "I can feel His Presence. It's never been this close before, except in Heaven."

"I can't," Crowley said a little mournfully.

Aziraphale smiled at him consolingly. "All things considered, that's probably a good thing."

"Yeah. I expect you're right." Lucifer's demons were stirring restlessly; some had begun quarreling softly but heatedly among themselves, and it seemed likely that violence would break out in the ranks before long. Lucifer himself stood a little apart from the rest, calm and ramrod-straight, gazing at the brightening sky with an air of impatience. The angelic guards were being quietly backed up by reinforcements.

"I hope Michael decides what he's going to do with me soon," Crowley said in an undertone. "I don't fancy being in with this lot when the grand finale starts."

"I'm sure he will," Aziraphale said automatically.

"You don't sound sure. But the sentiment is appreciated."

Aziraphale shook his head. "Michael is a rough sort. Impatient, and not one for subtlety. But he's not as unreasonable as he comes across, and he listens to the other Archangels. Raphael and Gabriel will bring him around."

Crowley smiled ruefully. "You have more faith in angelic nature than I do. But I guess that just stands to reason."

"I have faith in a lot of things," Aziraphale said softly. He glanced upward again, and sat up straighter. "Look..."

Crowley looked, and his hair stood on end as he saw an aurora ripple across the sky, spreading glorious color from horizon to horizon. From somewhere nearby, a trumpet call split the air, and the voices of the assembled Choirs rose in choruses of triumphant hallelujahs. From behind him came cries and moans of terror and despair, his onetime colleagues sensing that the final reckoning was upon them; it was all he could do not to cry out with them, fearing that in spite of everything that had happened he was still as doomed as they were, after all.

Aziraphale reached between the guards and grabbed his hand. He clung to his friend like a lifeline, remembering the last time they'd faced a moment like this. It was easier to be brave, he thought, when there was an enemy to fight, even if you were hopelessly outmatched. There was no fighting this. He wasn't sure whether he even wanted to. It was terrifying, and it meant the end of everything. But in more than seven thousand years of existence, he knew he'd never witnessed anything more beautiful, or awe-inspiring, or humbling.

"All right, move aside. Let's get him out of there." Michael's voice cut through his reverie, and Crowley scrambled up as he saw that the guards near him had parted, allowing him to pass. They had also raised their weapons, which confused him until he realized their eyes were trained on something behind him. Not daring to look back, and feeling unaccountably ashamed by the fact, he hurried to get out of the circle and rejoin Aziraphale.

Michael barked orders at several of his subordinates, directing them to tighten up the ring and keep their eyes on the prisoners, not the sky, before turning back to them. "I've got to get to my place. Aziraphale, I can't spare anybody else, so he's your problem for now. Find someplace out of the way to park yourselves, and make it quick." Speaking almost in a shout to be heard over the voices of the Host and the rapidly escalating wind, Michael fixed them each in turn with a steely gaze. "So help me, if you two so much as put one feather out of place..."

"We won't!" they promised in unison.

Looking less than reassured, Michael nevertheless nodded and launched himself into the air, arrowing off toward his appointed place.

"How the hell can he fly in this wind?" Crowley wondered, most of his attention still on the shimmering colors that bathed the sky. "My wings would snap like toothpicks!"

"He's Michael," Aziraphale said. "Come on. Let's put a little distance between us and them," he jerked his head back toward the circle. Crowley was only too happy to comply.

"I'm sorry," he called as they made their way to a sheltered spot well away from ground zero and looked out across the Heavenly Host arrayed in all its splendor. "You should be with the other Principalities. I didn't mean to wreck this for you."

"You aren't." Aziraphale smiled serenely. His halo was welling up around him, like those of every angel on the field, limning his unremarkable human form with silvery-blue radiance. "Wherever I am right now is exactly where I was meant to be. I never got on that well with them, anyway."

And just like that, time ran out. The trumpet sounded again, the Choirs gave a mighty shout, and the sky split asunder in a blinding burst of argent light...a light Crowley hadn't seen since before the count of days began. Tears welled up and spilled unnoticed down his face, and he fell to his knees, overwhelmed with the sense of his own utter insignificance before the Presence of the Lord. Every other living being on the field did the same.

Every being save one.

Lucifer stood alone, tall and defiant, as the light coalesced into a towering figure too bright to look on directly and swept across the field, halting directly before him. The ground underneath cracked, softened and soon liquefied beneath the assault of the sheer unimaginable power it had not been designed to withstand.

What passed between the two in those final moments--Father and wayward son, Adversaries but never equals--was not meant for those others present to know. But the Morningstar's air of cool disdain wavered briefly, and the grief and hatred mingled in his ice-blue eyes were terrible to behold.

Slowly, he bowed low before his Creator, acquiescing at last to the fate that had been written for him...and all who chose to follow him.

Crowley sensed what was coming an instant before it did, and instinctively turned to duck his head against Aziraphale, unable to watch. He felt the angel's arms and wings come around him as the ground beneath the Legion erupted, and couldn't suppress his own cry as their shrieks of agonized despair echoed around the valley, then spread with lightning speed through the vast assembly of humans; one mortal taken and another left untouched, the wheat being sorted from the chaff.

And then it was his turn. The weight of the Divine Judgement fell onto Crowley like the proverbial lead balloon, and he surrendered to it with an odd sense of relief, ready--perhaps even eager, now that it had come down to it--to learn how his part in the story ended.

\---

"See, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Crowley opened his eyes and then, sunglasses notwithstanding, had to shut them again against the sudden brightness; not that cold blue-white light on the battlefield of Megiddo, but the warm golden sunshine of an idyllic summer afternoon. Shading his eyes and trying again, he found himself standing in what looked like an old chalk quarry, half-overgrown with weeds and littered with the detritus of a hundred childhood adventures. Before him, a striking young boy with shining golden curls was perched on an overturned milk crate, chewing on a straw and regarding him with an air of benevolent indulgence.

"Adam Young?" Crowley croaked, knowing before he even asked that of course it wasn't.

"Nah." The boy drummed his heels idly against the crate. "He's round here somewhere, though. Diggin' into flavor number four or five about now, I 'spect." He smiled. "I just thought you might rather see a familiar face. Been a while since we talked in person."

Crowley sat down hard on the ground, heedless of the chalk smudges his inexplicably spotless suit acquired in the process. "Oh. Well...thanks, I guess. Nice of you to go to the trouble. Unless everybody's getting the personal touch?"

The boy shook his head. "They did, but ever'body else is already done."

"You work fast," Crowley observed.

"Course I do. Built the whole world in a week, didn't I?" The boy grinned. "Doesn't really matter now, though. There's no such thing as time anymore. You an' Aziraphale are the last bits of unfinished business."

Crowley nodded, brushing off the pang of sadness that came with that thought. "So what now?" he asked. "I take it I wouldn't be here if I was slated to be shuffled off with Lucifer and the rest."

"Uh-uh. You've earned somethin' better than that. But I thought I'd give you a minute to catch your breath before you decide what you're gonna do now, and maybe answer some questions for you I couldn't before."

Crowley blinked. "Before I decide? You mean I get to choose?"

"That's right." The boy nodded. "You kinda got the short end of the stick, way back in the Beginning, I'm not denyin' it. Always felt bad about that, but there was just no gettin' around it. I needed you where you were. An' you did a great job, by the way."

Crowley snorted. "So, what you're basically saying is, 'Good Crowley, you may have a biscuit'?" He rested his head on his drawn-up knees. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be disrespectful, it's just...do you _have_ to look like Adam? You're seriously weirding me out here."

A gentle hand ruffled his hair, and he looked up into a stately, grandfatherly face framed with snowy hair and a long beard. "Is this better? I've got a million of 'em..."

Crowley had to laugh a little. "Yeah. Thanks." The quarry was gone, replaced by a pristine white marble throne room, complete with ornate pillars and a dais with an oversize throne. It, too, was empty except for the two of them. "Retro, yet timeless. I like it."

Ignoring the throne, God nodded and sat down next to him on the floor. "Anyway, don't worry too much about disrespecting. Within reason, at least. I made you to be that way. You couldn't have carried out your part in the Plan otherwise."

Crowley thought about that for a minute. "You needed a wild card," he said slowly. "Someone who'd choose Earth over either Heaven or Hell."

"And more important, someone who would appreciate humans for what they were, not what they thought they _should_ be or what they once had been." God sighed. "You have no idea how much trouble most of your brethren on both sides had with that..."

Crowley remembered Hastur and Ligur and their archaic, single-minded approach to tempting. "I dunno, I think maybe I do. You can't really appreciate humans without practically becoming one of them."

"Exactly. Precisely why I sent my Son down there. It wasn't just a matter of purchasing their redemption; he needed the experience." God smiled ruefully. "I found out the hard way what a lousy ruler you make when you just try to impose divine law from on high without really connecting with your people. He'll do a much better job." He waved his hand dismissively. "But enough about my kid. You have questions, I know. Here's your big chance to get them answered."

"Well, fu...golly, where do I start?" Crowley rubbed his forehead. "All right, here's one. Why'd I have to Fall to do the job you needed me to do? Couldn't you have waved your magic wand and made me see things the way you wanted?"

God stroked his beard contemplatively. "For the same reason I let the Archangels debate what to do with you and come to their own conclusions," he said after a moment. "They arrived at exactly the decision I wanted them to, but they reasoned their way to it, and that makes it theirs in a way my dictating to them never could.

"Some things can be Revealed--some things have to be--but more often the lesson sinks in much better if it's learned through experience. Mankind was Fallen. If all I'd thrown at them was angels who remained in a state of grace..." He shrugged. "Well, look at your friend Aziraphale. Do you really think he could have done your job effectively, if it had been given to him? Without that resentment you bore toward me, or the understanding you had of what it's like to be on the outside?"

Crowley shook his head. "He couldn't tempt a rat with free cheese. That's another thing, though..." He hesitated, then plunged on, "I guess I can see why things had to work out the way they did. But if you don't mind my saying so, speaking up for Lucifer and his boys was a lousy excuse to kick me out. And Aziraphale has done things that are a hundred times worse by just about any measure. How come I Fell and he never did? I'm not saying I'd have _wanted_ him to," he added quickly. "It just seems like a bit of a double standard, you know?"

God gave him that infuriatingly knowing smile. "I suppose it must look that way from where you're standing. But to answer that one, I think another change of venue is in order."

"...I could really get to hate it when you do that," Crowley said a minute later, looking across the table at a slightly bewildered Aziraphale. God sat between them in a very expensive, very conservative suit, looking over the Ritz menu with interest.

He gave Crowley an amused glance over the top of the menu. "I'm sure. And how many times have you pulled similar tricks on humans?" he inquired.

"Point," Crowley muttered, picking up his wine glass and draining most of it in one go.

"The salmon mousse sounds lovely," Aziraphale remarked suddenly, looking over his own menu. Crowley almost inhaled his Chablis, and God reached around to pound him on the back.

"Oh dear. I'm sorry," the angel said, chastened, setting the menu aside. "That was silly of me. I'm afraid I'm just not quite sure what's expected at this juncture."

"We're just tying up a few loose ends," God explained, handing Crowley a napkin. "And on that note, I have a question for you, my child." He folded his hands on the table before him, regarding Aziraphale earnestly. "Why do you imagine, after 'misplacing' your sword--and fibbing about it, shame on you--consorting with the Enemy, indulging in Gluttony, coveting Earthly treasures, derailing an Apocalypse, misappropriating Heavenly property and giving poor Michael three kinds of migraines, you're still sitting here with us right now and not on the express elevator to Dis?"

Flushing bright pink, Aziraphale bowed his head. "I don't know, Father," he said in a small voice. "Although I've sometimes wondered."

"Mm. Well, let me ask you this, then. Suppose I were to tell you, right this moment, that Crowley here was about to be sent to Hell for good, and the only way you could save him was to Fall yourself?" God's face had gone deadly serious. "What would you say to that?"

Crowley was certain he was going to throw up.

Now white as the fine linen table cloth, Aziraphale looked at God in horror, then at Crowley, and then back at God again. "I..."

"Come on now, spit it out. It's not as though I don't already know your answer," God said a bit impatiently.

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath. "I'd do it," he said in a near-whisper. "I'd have to do it."

"Angel, _no,"_ Crowley shouted, appalled, jumping up and knocking his chair over.

But God made a placating gesture. "Keep your shirt on, Crowley, sit down. It was a rhetorical question. No one is going to Fall, now or ever again. You have my word on that." As Crowley slowly righted his chair and obeyed, glaring all the while, he added, "And both of you, forgive my seeming cruelty. But this is a very important point. Aziraphale, I saw what was in your heart just now. As terrible a choice as I laid before you, still, you weren't placing your friend above your love or your duty to me, were you?"

"No, Father," Aziraphale said immediately, still looking mildly ill.

"No, you were not," God said emphatically, topping off the angel's wine glass. "You trusted in me and in what your own heart told you, as you have always done, and assumed that I must have a good reason for what I asked. You had faith. The only person you placed Crowley ahead of was _yourself."_ He turned to look at Crowley. "Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"I think so." Crowley was staring at the table in front of him. "I tried to save my friends, but I wouldn't have willingly traded places with them if I'd known what it would cost me. And I--" He swallowed hard. "I didn't just question your decision. I judged."

"There you have it," God said quietly. "You put me out of your heart, gave my place there to someone else--you had lousy taste in friends back then, by the way--and when that happened there was nothing that could have stopped your Fall." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Let me tell you something else. I made you to be the way you are, yes, with certain eventualities in mind. But nothing in my Plan was ever written in stone. You weren't the only angel there who had friends among the Faithless. I knew someone would speak up, and I suspected it would be you, but when it came right down to it, the choice was yours to make. Just as Aziraphale's a moment ago was entirely his."

"So we have had free will all along?" Crowley still couldn't quite bring himself to look at Aziraphale.

"Well, not in the same broad sense that humans do. I needed tools, but tools with a degree of autonomy. ...Ah, cripes, I sound like a heartless Machiavellian bastard, don't I?" God sighed and waved a basket of garlic bread into being on the table between them.

"You said it, Sir, I didn't," Crowley mumbled, grabbing a bread stick and summoning up some marinara sauce to dip it into.

"Yes, well. I'm not going to drag out that tired old trope about breaking eggs to make an omelet. ...Oh for My sake, Aziraphale, eat. Never mind the gluttony crack. I let you stuff your face for seven thousand years, I'm not about to can your ass now over a flippin' bread stick." He pushed the basket the angel's way and continued, "So, getting back to business.

"Crowley, you've got two choices. Earth officially ceased to exist about twenty-two minutes ago, if we were still keeping track. We're actually in Limbo right now. You could stay here and have a pretty decent existence. Poke around a bit and you'd find a lot of righteous unbelievers and unbaptized kids hanging around. They're not bad people; they just wound up dying in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course you haven't got a whole lot in common with most of them." He soaked a chunk of the bread in butter sauce and wolfed it down.

"Or you could come back home with us to Heaven," he went on. "It might be a little rough at first. Some of Michael's boys in particular would have to warm up to you. But the Archangels have got their heads on straight, and between me and them, nobody's going to give you too much flak. And it'd save Aziraphale the nuisance of trekking out into Limbo to find you when he wants to visit."

Crowley sat chewing his bread and considering. It wasn't a small decision to make. "I don't have to decide this minute, do I?"

"Nah, think about it over dinner. We're not on any particular schedule here." God picked up the menu and perused it again. "I think I'm going to start off with a half lobster en gelée..."

It was the single most surreal meal the two friends had ever shared, precisely because it was in most respects so shockingly ordinary. God was a witty conversationalist, well-versed in literally every subject, and turned out to be an old football fan. They reminisced about everything under the sun over several delicious courses, got to hear the rationale behind the existence of the platypus**, and learned there actually was life on other planets (albeit in no form they would recognize.) For a little while, it was almost possible to forget where they were and the weighty matter that still lay unresolved.

\---

"Mm. Now that," God finally said, finishing off his last spoonful of Crème Brûlée, "is what I call a dessert." He pushed the dish away and sighed contentedly. "I think I'd like a cigar. You boys want a cigar?"

"No thank you, Father," Aziraphale said, considerably restored after his own excellent meal. Crowley shook his head. He hadn't eaten much and was now picking disinterestedly at his caramel soufflé, a distant look on his face.

"Ah well, your loss," God said, producing a fine Montecristo whose end cut itself and then lit spontaneously. He leaned back in his chair and savored the aromatic smoke, smiling enigmatically at his two companions.

"Crowley?" the angel ventured after a moment. "Are you all right, my dear? I know this is all very strange." He wished for a moment he could talk to Crowley in private, but realized immediately what a foolish desire that was; nothing was, or ever could be, hidden from their Father. _Our Father,_ he thought then, as it hit him solidly for the first time that Crowley really was, after a fashion, his brother. The revelation left him slightly breathless.

"I'm all right," Crowley said quietly. "Sorry to hold things up. It's just...it's a lot to absorb all at once..."

God chuckled, leaning in Aziraphale's direction. "What he means," he said confidentially, "is that he's still got questions he wants to ask, but he's too embarrassed. And rightly so," he added reprovingly as Crowley looked up in chagrin. "If he was using half the brains I gave him he'd already know the answers. Want me to make it easy for you, son?"

Crowley went red and dropped his gaze. God went on, "You want to know if I love you. Well, what kind of dumbass question is that? I sent _him_ to look after you, didn't I?" He jerked a thumb in Aziraphale's direction, and the angel's mouth dropped open in shock. _Sent...?_ "Your very own guardian angel, for crying out loud, how many demons do you think got one of those?"

Aziraphale couldn't read Crowley's expression, and immediately commenced to fretting. _He doesn't think that all this time he's been just an assignment?_ The angel hadn't known--well, apart from his blanket conviction that the Plan covered all contingencies, in one way or another--and he didn't think he'd have acted much differently if he had. Crowley was dear to him for so many reasons that had nothing to do with his job.

But God carried on, "And you're wondering how I can offer you Heaven when I know that _you_ don't love _me."_ He sighed. "That one's not quite so idiotic. It's usually a deal-breaker. And I won't lie to you, Crowley...I know better than anyone exactly how and why things turned out the way they did, and I'll shoulder my share of the blame. But it still hurts." Crowley gave him a skeptical look, and he added, "No, I mean it. When you give somebody a personality and free will--even in a limited capacity--you give them the power to hurt you. Turn their backs. That's the price I've paid for not spending eternity alone, you know? I could've filled the place with mindless automatons who'd obey me without question, but what would be the point?" He spread his hands. "The problem with Solitaire is, even if you win, all you've done is beaten yourself. And there's nobody there to be happy for you. Having that means taking some risks."

"Okay, so it hurts. You still haven't explained why you'd let me back in," Crowley said.

God smiled. "I'm taking the long view here. Seven thousand years ago, you were a cocky little Virtue with a big mouth who by your own admission would never have stuck his neck out for his friends if he'd understood the price. Earlier today, you attacked an Under-Duke of Hell to protect an angel you didn't even know. And half an hour ago--knowing exactly what Hell is and staring eternity in the face--you wouldn't let Aziraphale trade himself for you."

Aziraphale watched the light of comprehension dawn in Crowley's face as God concluded, "In short, you've learned to care for someone else more than yourself. If you can do that, then I can take it on faith that you'll make it the rest of the way. So yeah. If you want to come home, all you have to do is say so."

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who smiled encouragingly. He knew which option he hoped his friend would choose, but he wouldn't try to influence things; Crowley had earned the right to make this choice for himself.

\---

"I think," Crowley said finally, none too certain he knew what he was talking about, "I think I'd like that."

"Hot damn!" God laughed and jumped up out of his chair, doing a little victory dance. "Michael owes me a steak dinner. Whoo!"

Crowley shook his head bemusedly. "Only..."

God stopped and gave him a disgruntled look. "Oh come on, what now?"

"Can we just walk this time, please?"

"Ha! Sure, sure. Whatever you like. C'mon, boys, let's blow this joint." Aziraphale and Crowley got up and walked with him toward the door. "You know you really don't need those bodies anymore..."

Crowley shrugged. "I've actually got kind of attached to this one," he admitted.

Aziraphale chuckled. "I told you so."

"Shaddup, you."

"I most certainly will not. I'm rather fond of mine as well, Father."

"Ah, well, that's all right, they're made in my image, right? Hold up just a minute though." God stopped and turned Crowley to face him. Whisking the sunglasses off, he passed his other hand over Crowley's face.

Crowley blinked and rubbed his eyes, which suddenly felt very strange. When he dropped his hands, he saw Aziraphale smiling and nodding approvingly, and needed no mirror to guess that had happened. "Why _did_ they always do that, anyway?" he asked.

"Psychosomatic. You did it to yourself every time, Crowley." Handing him back his shades, God paused with his hand on the door. "Crowley. That's not the name I gave you."

Crowley fidgeted. "I know. I don't remember the other one anymore."

"I could give it back to you," God offered.

"Thanks, but to be honest, I'm rather attached to the name, too..."

God looked a little disappointed, but said, "It does suit you, can't deny that. One thing at a time then, eh? It'll be there when you're ready."

Then he grinned and shoved open the door, leading them into what Crowley dimly recognized as an antechamber in Heaven's great temple that mirrored the one in Jerusalem.

The four Archangels were gathered there, talking quietly among themselves. They turned as one when the door opened and bowed before their Lord.

"All right, all right, no standing on formality today of all days," God told them, waving them upright. "Got everything wrapped up then, have we? Chairs up on the tables, turned off all the lights?"

"Azrael is just tidying up now, Father. He should be coming along soon," Raphael said, and then looked at Crowley. "He's made his choice, then?"

God put his hands on Crowley's shoulders, giving him a little shake. "Make merry, and be glad!" he said in a booming voice. "For this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and has been found."

Crowley rolled his eyes, but the Archangels laughed and applauded.

"Welcome home, little brother," Uriel said. Gabriel came up to shake his hand, and Raphael embraced him. "We'd just about given up hope," he said, sounding a little choked up.

"What, for me?" Crowley said, surprised.

"For any of the Fallen," Gabriel clarified, grinning from ear to ear. "We always thought some might find their way back into the fold, but after all those millennia..."

"Well done, Aziraphale," Uriel said. "Very well done indeed."

The Principality blushed. "Oh, well, I had very little to do with it, actually..."

Crowley shook his head, breaking away from his well-wishers to go and grab his old friend by the shoulders. "You couldn't possibly be any more wrong about that," he said fiercely. "I'm still not sure I have any business being here, but if I do, it's because of you. Because you had faith in me." The events of the day caught up to him suddenly, and he gulped back a rush of tears as the magnitude of his debt became clear to him. "I owe you _everything."_

Aziraphale could find no answer to that but to hug him hard.

"Ahh, that's nice. All's well that ends well," God said happily. "Now if I know my business, and I usually do, there's one hell of a party going on outside--metaphorically speaking. Who feels like celebrating?"

The little group moved toward the outer doors, which opened at God's gesture to reveal the glimmering spires of the Silver City. Its crystalline streets overflowed with the souls of the blessed, and the air with angels of all the choirs as far as the eye could see, all laughing and singing and praising their Lord in a glorious cacophony of pure joy.

Crowley glanced up as Michael came to stand beside him in the doorway, a grudging smile on his face. "Well, there you are, little brother. It's all yours." He cuffed him lightly in the back of the head. "Try not to bollix it up."

"Ow. Duly noted." Crowley laughed and flung his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. They walked out into Paradise together as a flight of luminous Seraphs winged their way overhead, proclaiming God's glory in choruses of jubilant hosannas.

  
_And_[ _After All_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QonKMNZo41k) _that we've been through,_  
_it all comes down to me and you._  
_I guess it's meant to be_  
_forever you and me,_  
_after all._

\---

**You wouldn't believe me if I told you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course everyone knew there would be consequences, and that the world would have to end _sometime._ A story about What Happened After, with guest appearances by Him Below, the four Archangels and the Big Cahuna Himself. Written as a gift for lemonfruitfish for the 2008 Good Omens Exchange on Livejournal.
> 
> ...They're not mine, obviously.

  
**EPILOGUE**

Somewhere else entirely, Death hummed contentedly to himself as he attended to the last few tasks of his long and weary tour of duty, looking forward after all his labors to joining the party Up Above.

It would be nice, he thought, to find out what it felt like to kick back with a brewski and let someone else take care of business.

Going down his checklist one last time to be certain nothing was overlooked, he nodded to himself, leaned his broom against the wall and, after one final satisfied look around, locked the Universe behind him as he left.


End file.
